


the mouths of choking dreams

by idekman



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF Isaac, College AU, Feels, Future AU, Isaac in Paris, Mentions of attempted suicide, Multi, also VAMPIRES, hella feels, i would describe it as bittersweet, not really a fix-it fic but idk, only briefly mentioned, specifically Derek Hale and Isaac Lahey feels, werewolves in Paris, with overwhelming feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, he has to go back to them. As much as he doesn't want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mouths of choking dreams

Stiles had been hoping that by the time he'd finished with high school it would all be over. Werewolves, darachs, the nogitsune and, in general, things that go bump in the night (claws and horrific fangs sold separately); he'd expected to go to college, leave everything behind and forget all about it.

Except he'd also stupidly assumed that NYC would be absent of various supernatural creatures. Which - well, _wrong_. So when it turned out that his roommate was a vampire - which was a depressing concept of its own, because Stiles had _also_ been hoping that vampires don't exist. At least not in such _Twilight-_ esque fashion, and it turns out Stephenie Meyer hadn't been far off, judging by his roommate's _stupid_ hair and affinity for sunglasses - the first thing Stiles had done was call Scott. The effectiveness of the phone call was somewhat undermined by the fact that the vampire - called Tommy. Stiles had wondered if he'd picked it to seem misleadingly innocent and cute, of which he was _neither_ , because _hello, fangs?_ \- had been lunging at his throat at the time. Fortunately, Stiles was nothing if not prepared, and a hefty hit to the head with his near-by lacrosse stick had done a decent-enough job of incapacitating said roommate.

After that, it had all gone downhill.

Because, several hours later, at a time when Stiles was just about at the end of his tether trying to keep a furious, alarmingly strong vampire handcuffed to a radiator, Scott appeared. Which, you know, great. Except he was accompanied by Deaton and Derek. Stiles wasn't sure which was worse, especially as Derek skulking around his tiny dorm room in a leather jacket was both fulfilling several weirdly domestic fantasies of Stiles', and _terrifying_. He kept on _picking things up_. And _reading his textbooks_. And then sending him _judgmental looks_ \- and, alright, Stiles probably shouldn't highlight his library books.

The vampire situation had escalated somewhat - because, apparently, a bit like werewolves, vampires come in groups. Although, Stiles thinks, _coven_ sounds a lot less family-friendly than _pack_ , although they all share a cross-species affinity for skulking around in leather jackets. What had started out as a negotiation, the coven's attempt to reclaim a tearaway, unprepared, recently-turned vampire, had ended up in all-out war when the younger vampire had lunged for Stiles, sunk a few holes into his wrist and _tried to suck his blood._

To be honest, after the initial shock, Stiles had found the entire situation hilarious. His entire life had somehow turned into a comic-book-come-supernatural-romance story - he tried not to reflect on the romance side so much as Derek loomed over him, bandaging his wrist with gentle fingers, knelt before Stiles as he sat down on the bed.

In all honesty, Stiles had been perfectly willing to let Tommy go as long as he never came back to the college and let Stiles keep his X-Box. It could have all been over and done with in twenty-four hours, he and Scott could have reunited over terrible New York street vendor hot dogs, he could have kissed Derek senseless before they all drove home again, and the might even have got apologies from the coven all round.

Except Derek had _snarled_ at the suggestion - Stiles had counted himself lucky that he hadn't mentioned the making out bit out loud - eyes bleeding alpha red in a way that stilled even Deaton.

 _Which brings us up to right about now_ , Stiles reflects somewhat hysterically as he swings under the swiping hand of a vampire and tries to edge behind it, stake in hand. They'd taken apart Tommy's bed to make the stakes, Derek sharpening each one with a borderline-traumatising determination, and simply waited for the vampires to follow the traces of their youngest coven member's blood. Stiles had vetoed actual murder but it hadn't stopped Derek from laying into the kid with a certain vindictiveness which, when thought about too long, sent all sorts of questions scurrying through Stiles' head.

Infuriatingly, no one had listened to him asking how he was supposed to get the blood out of the carpet and therefore get his deposit back at the end of the year. 

They _also_ hadn't listened to any of his other suggestions; the actual sensible one, about garlic, had been lost in between a stream of _Twilight_ jokes, which was somewhat irritating. Especially since Stiles now figured he could do with some sort of upper hand other than a copious addiction to _Being Human_ , now that he's going toe-to-toe with a vampire in some dark, gross New York alleyway close to the university. Even _Deaton_ is being more helpful than Stiles is, going to town with some dangerous-looking herbs.

Despite the power of Scott and Derek's claws, Deaton's magic, Stiles' nifty work with a handful of stakes and his lacrosse stick, the fact of the matter is they're overwhelmed. The vampires are coming out of nowhere, seemingly bleeding out of the shadows, more and more of them until their small, rag-tag group is surrounded. It's not until Stiles' chest grows tight with panic, his hands beginning to tremble even as Derek laces their fingers together, shifting Stiles behind his back slightly, that he realises he might actually _die_. Right here, right now, bleed out in some grotty alleyway, far away from home, leave his dad all alone -

He's just beginning to hyperventilate, his blood pounding about his head in a way that must be utterly _delicious_ for the vampires, when an arrow shoots out of the sky and strikes one down. There's an offended shriek and a vampire gets taken out - then another, and another, the arrows raining down like lightning, never missing their aim, until there's only a handful of vampires left, looking increasingly terrified as Derek shoots them a particularly nasty grin.

A shadow drops down from the fire escape above them, landing in a crouch. Amber eyes glow bright in the dim light, playing against the soft stretch of the street lights a little way off, and Stiles is thinking _oh motherfucking shit_ even as Scott is gawping out

_Isaac? Isaac Lahey?_

-

Isaac knows that Stiles is rooming with a vampire approximately ten minutes after the two of them are randomly assigned together.

He's not ashamed to admit he keeps track on all of them. Lydia's living in private accommodation in Cambridge, so he doesn't really have to worry about her - although he does run a background check on all of her professors, but they turn out fine. Derek remains in Beacon Hills, and other than an excess of moping, he seems fine. Scott unwittingly narrowly avoids an altercation with the alpha of another pack at Berkley, but Isaac doesn't take into account the power of Scott's oblivious, puppyish smile, so he doesn't need to intervene there. Kira takes a sword with her to college which she stores under her bed, so Isaac doesn't worry so much about her.

And it's a debate, whether he should go check up on Stiles. Autumn in Paris is beautiful, he's found someone who'll teach him Japanese in exchange for the pastries he's started baking. He makes money selling paintings to tourists and hacking into electronic exam papers for harried university students. He even manages to change someone's driving theory test score in the ten minutes that it processes because the pretty girl brings him a hot chocolate out on the bridge where he's painting, out in the biting cold. He makes his way, just barely keeping up his rent payments on the small apartment he lives in, attempts to go out on dates and leaves each one crashing and burning. He wouldn't say he's happy. He feels content, at times, on days like these where the sun shines down on his balcony, days where he can just about ignore the ragged hole in him, the aching pull in his chest. It's better when Chris is around, or he rings and asks for updates on the strange, dismembered Beacon Hills pack, scattered every which way now. But most of the time Isaac is lonely and alone, and the only thing worse than that is the thought of going back.

So he keeps an eye on the Stiles situation. He hacks into the university's surveillance cameras, watches Tommy's comings and goings - and as the situation worsens, as Stiles remains oblivious to Tommy's lingering stares, the way his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate when Stiles gets a paper cut, Isaac makes a decision.

He flies out. He remains close. And when the tentative negotiations go to shit he gets involved. He feels sick, his head is thrumming and his breathing is tight when he looks over their familiar, scared faces, as he stares at the spot where she should be - but he gets involved. Because it's what she would have done.

-

Isaac leaps forward, feeling adrenaline thrum through his veins as he whips stakes from his jacket, watching the vampires respond to the threat he produces. His mind races momentarily, tracking their potential routes and movements, dancing from foot to foot to keep a step ahead, and finally -

_Stake through the chest. Head to the ground. Stake to the throat, claws to the face. One two three four._

He heaves out quick, sharp breaths and finally, after shooting the scattered bodies a wary look, forces himself to turn to the group still standing.

'I go by Argent now,' he mutters, sending Scott a warning glare at the boy's bemused expression as he pulls a scarf up around his mouth. He can already see the warning blink of a security camera, and whilst the vampires won't appear on the tape, his face _will_. 'We should get going. Do you have a safe house nearby?'

Stiles, who until this point has been gaping across at Isaac - he wonders if the boy realises he's still holding Derek's hand - pipes up uncertainly;

'My room?'

'No,' Isaac snaps out, his voice a little muffled by the scarf as he begins to lead the way down the street, talking over his shoulder as he leads the small group back to his hire car, 'not safe enough. They know the place now, they'll look for you there first. Derek?'

The alpha pauses in his stride, face unsettling even as Isaac raises an eyebrow, veering a sharp right into the multi-storey carpark he'd left the car, doing a quick scan to remind himself where the exits are in case they're apprehended before they even reach the vehicle. He wishes, sometimes, that he could switch it all off; the constant turning of his brain, the hyper-tense wariness that won't leave him be. The paranoia had settled in sometime after she'd died, and although it's come in handy more often than not, it leaves him jolting at every movement, gasping out through screams at the end of nightmares when he's flooded out of sleep by the creak of a floorboard in the apartment above his. It's _exhausting_.

'I have a place - it's not far.'

Derek bundles into the backseat with Stiles, leaving Isaac in the front with a tentative Scott; the werewolf has been silent but Isaac can hear it. The constant tattoo of his heartbeat as he does up his seatbelt and stares out the window, his face cast in shadows by the odd, almost green light of the parking lot.

'Why do you have a place here?' Stiles muses absently as Isaac starts the engine. It doesn't muffle the way Derek's heartbeat picks up a touch; he can feel the rumble of his alpha in his own chest, the pull a constant nag now that they're all close by. _Pack_ , the wolf whispers to him even as he desperately ignores it, shifting into gear a little more harshly than he'd intended.

He watches in the mirror as Derek shoots Stiles an uncomfortable look. Despite the vampires they'd just been swarmed with, the way he can feel Stiles seconds away from a supernatural-induced panic attack, there's something remarkably human about the way the boy blushes and bites on his lip, looking up at Derek from under his lashes.  
The tear in Isaac's chest rips a little bigger. _This_ , he tells himself, as Scott's frown deepens and Derek's cheekbones flush with colour, _is why you stayed away_.

It hurts. It hurts so much and it feels as if every inch of him is tearing apart and he can't breathe. Tearing the scarf off from around his neck, figuring the car offers him a little cover from the constant watch of surveillance cameras, he throws it across the dashboard, tightening his grip on the steering wheel until the shake in his fingers dissipates.

'What's with the scarf, Isaac?'

Stiles is attempting casual but Isaac, well-trained now, can smell it all. _Confusion. Fear. Anger._

'I'm wanted for hacking over here,' he tosses out, words landing heavily in the silence of the car. He can audibly hear Stiles' throat click as he swallows.

' _Right_. And, um - what are you doing here, exactly?'

'Later,' he grits out. 'When we're at the safe house.'

'Turn down here,' Derek orders, forgetting - for a moment - that Isaac isn't his beta anymore. He twists round the corner sharply as a reminder, almost throwing Derek out of his seat as he does so, ignoring the childish satisfaction in his gut. At least he'd gotten the two of them to stop holding hands for five damn minutes.

 

_'Why did you come back?'_

 

Derek's safe spot in New York was a small, surprisingly cosy apartment in the outskirts of Manhattan. It was certainly nicer than back in Beacon Hills; there were a few rugs thrown here and there, the curtains a soft shade of red. It's sweet and Stiles looks at home here, he and Derek darting around each other in a gently domestic manner as Stiles searches for fresh bandages and Derek tries to remember where he put the kettle.

Isaac lasts five minutes.

He expects Scott to come up and find him. He's grateful when it's not. Isaac's gut sours with revulsion every time he looks at him.

When he blinks, Isaac can see Scott. Bent over her. Agony in the crook of his back, her blood on his hands as she speaks of love and his throat is raw with agony because _I never got to say good bye._

He expects Scott, up on the roof. He gets Derek.

'So. Wanted by the police. Sounds familiar.'

His back stiffens at the sound of the alpha's voice, anxiety clawing up his ribs, but he doesn't protest when Derek settles next to him. Isaac's sat, feet dangling off the edge of the roof, letting himself believe the breeze could be enough to knock him away if he wanted it to. He remembers standing on a building just like this one, staring down at the busy streets of Paris, heart hammering in his throat. The only person around to talk him down had been himself but a part of him had always thought it was _her_ voice, whispering into his ear. 

_(Come down, Isaac. It's alright. You're alright. I'm here.)_

Shaking the memory away, he flicks Derek a quiet look. The werewolf looks exactly the same; still young, still beautiful and roughened. The same big, sad eyes. Isaac knows he looks years older, shadows under his eyes and a long, thin scar snaking over his cheekbone after a fight with a hunter and a wolfsbane-laced knife. He wishes, instinctively, that he had the scarf he'd abandoned in the car; it lends him security and comfort, something to hide behind, all at once.

'Why did you come back?' Derek asks carefully, the way he wraps his fingers together almost hypnotising as he swings his legs, knocking one foot against the other.

'Why do you have a safe house in the middle of New York?' Isaac snaps back, cold and tired, hoping he can send Derek away. Instead, he tilts his head to one side, knuckles turning a little white with the way he curves one hand around the other.

'Well. I suppose - because of Stiles,' Derek eventually forces out, voice hoarse - as if it physically pains him to discuss a love he's been harbouring ever since Isaac met him.

(A younger self, voice pitched a little higher, face un-scarred but back thick with the things, leftover from childhood, is sat on the mattress in the rail depot. Derek is meditating, settled Indian-style, on one of the stiff seats. Isaac's own eyes are squeezed shut, trying to pick out heartbeats from the street above, when he asks about Stiles. Asks how he knows so much about werewolves and the pack.

Derek's eyes had flicked open and Isaac had seen it, in that little flicker before his expression had shuttered.

 _He's clever_ , Derek had responded gruffly, but Isaac hadn't missed the fondness there.)

'He likes you too, you know,' Isaac murmurs because he can't help himself, listening to the gentle spike in Derek's heart beat. When he looks over, the werewolf is smiling, a wry, barely-there twist of the lips.

'Is it just - just Stiles? You've been keeping an eye on? Or -'

'It's all of you,' Isaac interrupts drily, his throat crackling with the way Derek's watching him. He knows that admitting to watching is like admitting he _cares,_ so stares out over New York. It's an impressive sight, a constant blur of car headlights and sprinkles of lights from skyscrapers, apartment blocks, little homes set close to the ground. It has the same business of Paris and if he squints, he can imagine he's back there, alone and silent, on his balcony.

'Why did you leave, Isaac?' Derek asks, his voice a whisper into the thick quiet, throat tight with gravel. Pricks of sweat travel across the palms of Isaac's hands and he pushes shaking fingers through his curls.

It all comes out at once, hurried and jumbled before he can really stop it.

'Because every time I look at any of you, at Scott, she's all I can see. I watch her die every night - I can remember the way she sounded, the way her hands were shaking but I can't remember how her face looked when she smiled. And I hate it, I _hate_ _it_ -' he forces himself to stop, taking a long, gasping breath that ends on a choked sob. Derek is utterly still beside him as Isaac's hands curl around his ribs. Carefully, he holds himself together.

'It's my fault,' he croaks, feeling rather than seeing Derek stiffen as Isaac stares down at the streets. 'She died because I was weak.'

Derek's family died in a fire. He remembers that. She had told him the story of Kate Argent on a quiet night, he curled up on her bed, her feet like ice blocks against his too-warm legs. Guilt churns in his stomach as Derek's head dips; Isaac can see the memories, the blame, rushing across his face, weighing him down. _I did that_ , Isaac thinks, powerful and sad all at once.

'It doesn't go away. Not ever.'

He'd been hoping Derek would lie to him.

'But it helps to be with people who love you.'

He thinks of all the people who had loved him, once upon a time.

_Mom. Camden. Dad. Erica. Boyd. Allison._

It's not hard to see the correlating factor.

'I should go,' he mutters, because Derek's face is set like stone, heavy as if he can feel Isaac's sadness like a physical force. He stands, flinches when Derek's hand wraps around his wrist. His breath is cool against his face and he remembers the alpha snapping his wrist and snarling _look at me_. It feels like years ago but his brain is still flooded with panic and adrenaline, mixing with the heady sadness until his mind is a distant mess, Derek's words coming through warped and nonsensical.

 _You should stay_ , Derek says, and Isaac's brain can't process it.

He leaves the roof and Derek's strange, hidden apartment building and Stiles' gentle smile and Scott's sad, worried eyes and he doesn't say good bye as he goes because he doesn't  _want_ to.

-

Before he takes his plane back to Paris he goes back to Beacon Hills. He doesn't wear the scarf. The weather is just starting to turn a little colder down here and he huddles into a leather jacket, watches the way people stare at him, some faint recognition there. He runs into Melissa down the street and she is wordless, mouth fluttering open before he hurries on his way, sick to his stomach.

He talks to her. He goes to visit his mom first, and Camden - his dad is buried a little way off and he avoids him, feeling the friction of scars against the back of his shirt. He leaves flowers for them and then nestles, cross-legged, in front of her headstone. He traces his fingers over the engraving of her name and presses his palm to the ground, as if it brings her closer to him. He tells her about how he'd taken her bow when they went to France and learned to use it, practicing endlessly, even though Chris had told him he was more adept with a knife. He tells her about Chris teaching him to make lasagna because it was her favourite meal, about how he'd taught Chris to make chocolate cake because his wife had always done the baking on birthdays.

He tells her about Paris, about the girl who'd tried to kiss him in a club and how he'd gone home that night and cried, great wracking sobs, because the girl's lips had tasted like _hers_.

He tells her about the girl in the apartment over, whose balcony railing almost touches his, who has long dark hair and bright eyes and laughs at him when he eats breakfast outside in his dressing gown. She's Japanese and they can't understand a word the other says but they smile at each other in the dusky light of a Parisian evening.

He tells her about painting in the rain and the cold and the blistering heat and how much he loves it, how much he loves making money from doing things he's good at. How his dad had once told him he could never make a job out of art, but Camden had always pinned his paintings to his wall.

He tells her everything, and when he gets back to France he and Chris eat lasagna and he has nightmares, because it still hurts, every day. The blood on her lips is fever-red in his dreams and everything in his stomach clenches because he still hasn't - still can't - say goodbye.

He's not happy. Maybe he can manage content, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post on tumblr:  
> http://luckysharmz.tumblr.com/post/80896058163/luckysharmz-but-what-if-in-s5-scott-is-trapped
> 
> I still have absolutely no idea how to add links into the text of notes in a hyperlink so if anyone could let me know.  
> this one got away from me and i'm not sure if i like it idk 
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr if you enjoy sadness and misery over your favourite characters!  
> http://regina-autem-ubera.tumblr.com/
> 
> you may be asking: how did Isaac even get into the country if he's wanted in america? Does he have a passport? Can you be internationally wanted to the point where people are bothering to check security cameras for your face for a bit of hacking? How the fuck did Isaac get a bow through an international airport?? I, like the show, have chosen to ignore logic for dramatic effect. I hope you have enjoyed this short journey away from common sense.
> 
> If you've enjoyed, please leave a comment or some kudos! I have no idea if I want to continue this series any further because so far all these ideas have been nabbed from tumblr because I'm lame, but if you have any prompts shoot me a message via tumblr or something!


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